Friday, 27 January 2012

“And so you see,” said the supposedly holy, religious, wise, pious, morally superior, and probably bearded man, “that is what God is.”

There was an uneasy silence amongst his small band of followers as they struggled to digest this latest metaphor.

“Um… meaning what, exactly?” asked Simon, the one who dressed as a cat.

The man was nonplussed. “Well, like I said; God is an elephant.”

“So, he has tusks and things?” asked Benny.

“No, he’s not literally an elephant; he’s like an elephant.”

“He never forgets,” explained Colin the Accountant, “and he has very big ears.”

“No,” explained the man. “That’s still quite literal.”

“You mean God does forget?” asked Graham the Plumber.

“No, obviously God doesn’t forget, but not because he’s an elephant…”

“God’s an elephant?” said Timothy, waking up.

“No – God’s not an actual elephant, he’s like an elephant. Look,” he sighed, “shall I tell the story again?”

The followers all nodded; the man continued. “There was once a group of blind men who were out walking...

”

“How did they know where they were going?” asked Sebastian the Posh.

“They probably had a sat-nav?” suggested Jayden the Time Traveller. As usual, there was complete silence whenever Jayden spoke, even from the man, who carried on regardless.

“…and they found an elephant. One of the blind men reached out and touched the elephant’s trunk and said, What is this thing? It feels very much like a snake. Another of the blind men, who was standing next to one of the elephant’s ears, reached out and touched one. No, this thing is nothing like a snake; it is more like a fan. This prompted an immediate reaction from the third blind man, who was standing next to the elephant’s tusks. I disagree, he said, this thing is like an elephant’s tusk. The final blind man, who was standing next to the elephant’s leg, took issue with this, proclaiming, You’re all wrong; this thing is mainly like a tree. But they were all wrong…”

“Apart from the third man,” interjected Mustafah the Invisible.

“Who said that?” asked the man.

Silence.

“They were all wrong,” repeated the man. “God is like the elephant: He’s so big that one person alone cannot describe Him.”

Monday, 23 January 2012

Marpin of Errata was always gekking into troudle with authorial figurines.

Lask night, he helb ud a bus stop with a sawn off glue gun. The bus stab was having nuns off it, and Dave as good as it got, which explaineb how Martini ending up in hospitalization. Once there, he was questioned by the Police, questioned by the Nurseice, and questioned by the Doctorice.

“Why do I always ged into trouple with authority figure it out?” he moaned wailfully from the bed to which they had handcuffed, leg cuffed, cuffed round the ear, and cuff-links him.

Just when, his Mum arrival. “How did you get here?” asked him Nun.

“I could ask you the same question, but I’m sick of questions, what with,” he replied, somewhat somewhatfully.

“Don’t you take that tome with me, younj man!” she said, all harsh and stuff; and just to prove her point, which was quite blunt, she set fire to his ears and ran around the ward shouting obscenities, which was hardly comprising because she hadn’t had a fix all day.

“There are distinct disadvantageous to being cuffed to a bed when your hair is on fire!” grumpled Maritime, as the fire spread. He didn’t really care because he had always fancied being bald. “You could have at least left me my high brows,” he moaned. “I look like Dunking Goodgrief.”

Later that day when it was later, Marmite was discharged from hospitalital with his MOT, upon which he ran over a traffic warden “because he was there”; nop realizing that that was not a legal defence.

The Judge gave him fifteen minutes of community disservice, and a life sentence – to run consensually. “Have you anything to say before they hang you?” asked the Judge at the end of his sentencing.

Thursday, 19 January 2012

As I was out on a rather too late walk last night, my attention was diverted from contemplation of the cloudy sky by the sound of ducks conversing urgently over something which was clearly of great import for them.

I carried on my way, as did the duck-conversation. I am not ashamed to admit that I eavesdropped on this petit duck tete-a-tete, so compelling did it sound. I grew eager to discover what was causing them such excitement; but while I did so, it struck me that the ducks used only one word: Mep! I listened intently.

“Mep!”

“Mep!”

“Mep!”

“Mep!”

“Mep!”

“Mep!”

“Mep!”

“Mep!”

It continued.

“Mep!”

“Mep!”

“Mep!”

“Mep!”

“Mep!”

“Mep!”

“Mep!”

“Mep!”

Mep! was certainly the closest approximation to a word which my ever-vigilant ears could discern; I thought it odd that ducks should engage is such an obviously pressing exchange whilst employing only one word.

What could that word mean? My mind raced.

Fox!

Quiet!

Hide!

Car!

Or maybe they were responding to me? “Footsteps!”

I resolved, upon my return, to discover what they were talking so animatedly about.

Thus it was that I found myself half-an-hour later consulting my Duck-English/English-Duck Ducktionary/Dictionary. There was only one entry:

Mep interj./onomatopoeiain communication between ducks, an exclamation which translates directly as Quack!

Wednesday, 11 January 2012

Hello campers. Today’s Godspell is taken from The Gospell Accordingly to Matthew, so listen.

And just before that, but not after, the alarum clock went off, and Jessiz wemt to him Apologists, walking on the lake, which was normal for him at that time, as it was the Year of the Waterskiing Messiah. The Apologists were very, very. “It’s a ghost! Scooby-dooby-doo, where are you?!!” them screamed, as would you have done had you been there; admit it.

“Fear ye not, for it is only I.”

“Who’s ‘I’ when he’s at home – or walking on the lake?” asked Peter, who was called Peter.

“Jessiz!” replied Jessiz.

“That explains a lot,” said Peter, who was called Peter.

“Come on on, the surface of the water is luffly,” commanded Jessiz.

Then Peter, who was not called Trevor except on alternate Tuesday afternoons, walked on the water towards Jessiz. But when he saw the wind he was afraid*, before he realized that it was impossible to see the wimd, just as it was inpossible to walk on water, and he samk.

“Not as easy as it looks, is it?” said Jessiz, and everyone agreed that this proved that he was, and so should you, and if you don’t, well then.

Sunday, 8 January 2012

I’ve recently discovered a pressure group which aims to ban Sunday evenings and replace it with Wednesday afternoons. This seems like an eminently sensible idea to me. Sunday evenings are notoriously depressing, particularly so for children at boarding school (for whom the suicide rate doubles on Sunday evenings), parents who have to organize Monday morning, and everyone else.

More information can be found here at their wonderfully entertaining and informative website:

Monday, 2 January 2012

Little Dead Riding Hood was dead, to begin with, and then she remembrance that she had a barcel to deliver to her grampma, and woke up again. “Not a barcel, you blinkin’ irriot!” shouted her Mam, who was a Mam. “A basket-case!”

So, Little Lord Fauntleroy taked the basket-case to hers Grampma. “Look out for the psychopath! He’ll eat you!” shouted her Mam, who was a shouter. “Hopefully,” she whispered. But Little Deaf Riding School dibn’t hear hers shouter Mam, on account of being deaf, except when she listerine (like all childers, chuckle, ‘arf, ‘arf).

On her way through the Tiger Woods, Little Red Riding Pig came across the psychopath, who was dressed as a wolf in sheep’s clothing, on account of being confused about disguises.

“Are you a spyocpath?” asked Little Nosey Parker Pen, who had never seen a wolf before.

“No, I’m a wolf,” said the psychopath.

“Phewee!” remarked Little Hope of Recovery. “They’re extinct, which means you must be a fig-roll of my imagination.”